


Remember me now, forget who I never was

by gloria_scott



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drama, F/M, Trans Character, Transgender, Transgendered Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-01
Updated: 2011-07-01
Packaged: 2017-10-20 22:19:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/217684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gloria_scott/pseuds/gloria_scott
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lestrade runs into someone from his old neighborhood who has transitioned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Remember me now, forget who I never was

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Rupert Birthday Meme over at dilestrade; this is Lestrade with a nod towards _Different for Girls_. Much thanks to blooms84 for the beta!

_****_

 _Birthdays_ , Lestrade thinks to himself. _What a sodding load of crap_.

He’s at the pub and deep into his second glass of single malt; he could indulge a bit on the good stuff on his special day. Tired and full of self-pity as he was, he’d dragged himself out to this bar stool after working a twelve-hour shift for the fourth night in a row. Drinking alone at a pub seemed slightly less pathetic than drinking alone at home, he’d reasoned. But now that he’s here, he just wants to go back to his flat, put his feet up, and drown himself in whiskey and crap telly.

 _I’m getting too old for this shit_ , he thinks, taking another sip of his drink. He sighs and scans the length of the bar for any interesting prospects, not holding out much hope. A familiar face catches his eye. It almost looks like Michael, someone he’d known during his days as a constable in the town where he’d grown up, long before he moved to London and joined the Met. Street kid with the usual story – troubled home, delinquency, and drugs – he’d sometimes acted as Lestrade’s informant and liaison to the other yobs. Worked cheap, too; a kebab and a fiver would usually do for payment to keep him coming back.

Lestrade narrows his eyes and stares hard, trying to make sense of his memories. Because he’s not looking at a bloke now; he’s looking at a bird. But he can’t shake the feeling that’s it’s Michael – those eyes were unmistakable, but the rest of his features had softened, and his hair was more brown than the dirty blond it had been (though he’d always worn it long). She looks up then and catches him staring, and he quickly looks away. He mulls it over a bit before making up his mind, then after one last swallow of his whiskey, he gets up and walks over to her.

“Hi,” he says brightly and smiles. “Remember me?”

“I’m sorry; I think you’ve mistaken me for someone else.”

Something in the voice, a certain tone and timbre, shore up his confidence despite her protestation. Not to mention the way her lips purse and her eyes shift away – he knew the look well once upon a time – Michael when he was trying to hide something. He’s right, he’s sure of it.

“Come on, now,” Lestrade lowers his voice and leans in to her in a conspiratorial way. “I don’t want to call you _Michael_. That’s clearly not your name anymore.”

She shoots him a guarded, worried look, searching his face for a long moment.

“Michelle,” she finally says, offering her hand.

“Still Greg,” he says.

Her hand is soft, and he has to back off from his usual robust shake to match her grip.

“Oh, I don’t think I ever knew your given name, Constable Lestrade,” she replies. Lestrade cocks his head at the empty bar stool next to her, and she nods.

“It’s Detective Inspector now, if you please,” he says, taking a seat and gesturing to the bartender for another round. 

“I know. I’ve seen your ugly mug in the papers.” She offers him the hint of a smile, tentative, probing.

“Yeah, thanks,” he laughs. “I guess my rugged good looks don’t appeal to everyone.” The bartender sets their drinks down – whiskey for him, hard cider for her – and Lestrade pays, then tips his glass to her.

“Cheers. So what are you doing here in London?”

“I moved here a couple of months ago for work. I run a program that provides studio space for artists in Southwark.”

Michael had been quite an artist himself back in the day. Lestrade recalls at least three ASBOs he’d issued for defacement of public property. It was a shame when his paintings had been covered over, though; Lestrade had quite liked them.

He keeps her talking now – about her job, the London art scene, the last exhibition she’d hosted for one of her starving artists. She doesn’t ask about his work, and he’s quite glad of that; no sense miring them both down with talk of murder and soul-crushing bureaucracy. He’s more interested in the way her eyes shine as she talks about her passion for beauty and the mystery of creative expression. As she talks, he can see her begin to relax and really show herself, and he wonders at the beautiful, confident woman she’s become, so different from the shy, broken boy he’d known on the streets all those years ago.

Their conversation hits a lull, and Lestrade takes a swig of his drink. He wants to ask – he’s dying to, actually – but he’s afraid that one inartful question might trigger her defenses again. She’s so lovely when she smiles; he doesn’t want her to stop. He meets her gaze, which is open and questioning, and he decides to risk it.

“Am I allowed to ask, then?” he says quietly.

She looks at him thoughtfully and without any anger that he can sense. A wry smile plays on her lips as she answers.

“Only if you take me to dinner first.”

Lestrade laughs. “My pleasure. Still have a penchant for kebab?”

“Please,” she rolls her eyes. “My tastes are considerably more refined these days. I know a fantastic sushi bar not far from here if you’re game.”

Lestrade suspects that this sushi place might be a pound or two out of his usual price range, but what the hell; it’s still his birthday and he can afford to splurge a bit more.  They get up and he waits for her to don her jacket and purse. Once outside, he offers her his arm, which she accepts. They pick up the threads of their conversation as they walk, tentatively weaving their way through a past that never really existed, towards something that was altogether new for both of them.

****


End file.
